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reply.
‘I’ve been more than once, Pansy,’ Madame Merle de-
clared. ‘Am I not your great friend in Rome?’
‘I remember the last time best,’ said Pansy, ‘because you
told me I should come away.’
‘Did you tell her that?’ the child’s father asked.
‘I hardly remember. I told her what I thought would
please her. I’ve been in Florence a week. I hoped you would
come to see me.’
‘I should have done so if I had known you were there.
One doesn’t know such things by inspiration—though I
suppose one ought. You had better sit down.’
These two speeches were made in a particular tone of
voice—a tone half-lowered and carefully quiet, but as from
habit rather than from any definite need. Madame Merle
looked about her, choosing her seat. ‘You’re going to the
door with these women? Let me of course not interrupt the
ceremony. Je vous salue, mesdames,’ she added, in French,
to the nuns, as if to dismiss them.
‘This lady’s a great friend of ours; you will have seen her
at the convent,’ said their entertainer. ‘We’ve much faith in
her judgement, and she’ll help me to decide whether my
daughter shall return to you at the end of the holidays.’
‘I hope you’ll decide in our favour, madame,’ the sister in
spectacles ventured to remark.
‘That’s Mr. Osmond’s pleasantry; I decide nothing,’ said
Madame Merle, but also as in pleasantry. ‘I believe you’ve a
very good school, but Miss Osmond’s friends must remem-
ber that she’s very naturally meant for the world.’

330 The Portrait of a Lady